


drop 'em to the floor

by silverdawn89



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Lingerie Kink, M/M, Mild Self-Loathing, Panty Kink, Rimming, Voyeurism, but they will be, probably blow jobs, they're not there yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverdawn89/pseuds/silverdawn89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s white lace stitched along the hem of the panties, which Harry knows because he has a brief out-of-body experience imagining them low on Eggsy’s hips, dark purple against pale skin, cock tucked delicately away - or, no, hard and flushed red, precome leaving an even darker spot on the silk, where Harry can put his mouth and taste him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	drop 'em to the floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dimbleby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimbleby/gifts).



> A huge thank you to dimbleby for encouraging this monster :) 
> 
> I started writing this last July ... 10 months and 11K later, here we are. I don't usually like posting WIPs buuuut I'm posting this now in the hopes that you guys will guilt me into finishing it so :D?? 
> 
> Title is from Rihanna - I think I've used lyrics from this song before but eh.

Harry's never felt as old as he is, so he's not particularly surprised when he reaches his fifty-first birthday without major incident - 

(“ _Without major incident?_ ” Merlin echoes, in a tone so high-pitched with outrage that Harry’s frankly astonished the selection of puppies for the latest crop of Kingsman recruits don’t set up howling alongside him. “Percival, pass me your fucking gun, would you, so I can shoot him in his other fucking eye.”

Percival just raises one very cool eyebrow and then goes back to reading _The Times_ , blatantly ignoring them both.

“T’is but a scratch,” Harry says as blasé as he can, because he’d been properly terrified that day in Kentucky, knowing that this was it, that there would be no more outmanoeuvring the villain or witty one-liners followed by a daring and heroic last-minute escape. He’d known he was going to die with a certainty that still doesn’t feel entirely real, so he’s going to make as many fucking jokes about it as he wants, until he stops waking up in the middle of the night screaming, still staring down the barrel of Valentine’s gun.

And perhaps Merlin knows something of this, because all he does is mutter, “Fucking reckless, careless sodding _prick_ ,” and says no more about it).

\- and realises being fifty-one is almost exactly the same as being fifty, and really, what was he expecting anyway? 

Oddly enough, the thing that makes him feel his age most keenly isn't the faint twinge in his back or the tremor in his hand, nor even the creeping threads of grey in his hair or the deepening crow's feet around his eyes. No, in fact it’s Eggsy who makes Harry feel every one of his increasing years

Alright, it’s not that Eggsy makes him feel _old_ so much as he makes Harry feel like a _dirty old man_ , because every time Eggsy looks at him with that endearing and mischievous smile of his, Harry can’t help but entertain thoughts of taking the boy to bed and utterly ruining him.

This isn’t, exactly, a recent development. In between bailing Eggsy out of prison and recruiting him to Kingsman, the feelings of intrigue and vague fondness he’d felt at finally meeting Lee’s son had gradually turned into fierce appreciation for this brilliant, beautiful young man who fights like it’s as natural as breathing, and who is still so _kind_ despite all the bad things that have happened to him, the odds that have been stacked against him his whole life. 

And then it just suddenly hits him one day that while yes, he does feel very fond and protective and other equally noble things for Eggsy, Harry would _also_ quite like to know what he'd look like with that lush mouth wrapped around Harry's cock, and whether he'd take to getting fucked as beautifully as he'd taken to fighting his way single-handedly through a supervillain's mountainous lair.

Which is why, when Eggsy bends down in front of him to wrangle JB away from the sweet lure of his shoelaces, revealing not just the soft, pale divot at the small of his back but also a very unexpected strip of teal-coloured satin, Harry doesn’t do the gentlemanly thing and avert his eyes and pretend he never saw a thing. Instead he blinks twice, and then immediately imagines Eggsy spread out face-down, arse up across his bed, the pretty teal knickers making a lovely contrast against the white of the sheets while Harry eats him out for so long Eggsy's sobbing with it. 

"Harry?" Eggsy says, breaking into his thoughts, and it's about then that Harry realises he's just been staring into space like an idiot. "You alright, bruv?"

"Fine, dear boy, quite fine," Harry replies calmly. "And don't call me bruv."

He deliberately thinks of nothing very much, until Eggsy leaves with JB waddling happily after him, and then he yanks his trousers open, takes his cock out, and wanks off so hard he nearly sprains something.

Quite frankly, this is not how he pictured spending his middle-age.

It occurs to him later (much, much later) to wonder why on earth Eggsy would be wearing women's underwear. Nothing in his psych profile suggests it, and Harry flatters himself he knows enough about Eggsy now to know that it isn't something he could have predicted. Even later than that, he realises (with the same kind of guilty twinge he used to get when he accidentally trod on Mr Pickle's paws and his beloved dog would look up at him with sad, betrayed eyes until Harry fed him two-dozen treats in apology) that's it's really none of his business, and the best thing to do would be to put it out of his mind. Which he does.

Until, of course, it happens again.

***

It's an accident again, which is about the only vaguely positive thing Harry can say about the incident, and is really a result of him being unable to keep track of his glasses, despite the fact that he's been wearing them for over thirty fucking years, and Merlin still threatens to dismember him when he returns from missions without them.

Eggsy’s back from a mission in Hungary, from what was supposed to be a simple observe-and-report but had ended up in, consecutively, a bar fight, a shootout, and a car chase through the streets of Budapest, because why do things subtly when you can do them loudly and with multiple explosions? It’s not a philosophy Harry can really disagree with - not without sounding like a hypocrite anyway - so when Eggsy turns up at his door with a split lip and the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw, and the blood of at least three different people spattered across his suit, Harry just steps aside to let him in. 

The first time this happens - Eggsy sheepishly bleeding on his doorstep, a sports bag hanging from his shoulder - Harry raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“It’s my gear, innit?” Eggsy says, like it’s obvious. He jiggles the bag as evidence and adds, “My civvies, isn’t that what you and Merlin call them? Anyway, I can’t go home lookin’ like this, Mum’ll go mental if she sees all this blood.”

“That’s wonderful, really, Eggsy,” Harry says, deadpan. “But that’s not what I asked. What are you doing here?”

“Don’t be a twat, Harry,” Eggsy tells him, rolling his eyes. “Can I come in or not?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Harry says wryly. Eggsy must be tired; usually he’s quite happy to banter back and forth with Harry until one of them breaks.

Now, Eggsy goes straight upstairs to the bathroom for a shower, and Harry busies himself downstairs, at least until he reaches for his glasses and realises they’re not there. He remembers taking them off not long ago; they were starting to pinch around the bridge of his nose and his eyes were itching a little from tiredness, but now he can’t for the life of him remember where he put them.

A quick recce of the downstairs level turns up a set of cufflinks, three mismatching shirt buttons, the spare cable for his tablet, and a five pound note that he happily pockets - but no glasses. Upstairs it’s much the same story - a bunch of random rubbish that he isn’t entirely sure he ever remembers acquiring, anything and everything but what he’s actually looking for. 

The lights are on in the spare room; Eggsy must be in there now, so Harry decides to have a quick look in the bathroom now he’s vacated it, though it’s unlikely his glasses will be there. 

Except the bathroom’s not actually empty.

“Harry!” Eggsy squeaks, spinning around sharply. “You scared the shit out of me, mate, learn to fuckin’ knock, yeah?”

“Learn to knock in my own home,” Harry repeats, raising a pointed eyebrow. He’s quite proud of how steady his voice comes out, considering the inside of his head is just a shell-shocked litany of _naked, naked, he’s wet and naked_.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Eggsy mutters, flushing, and Harry can’t help it - he glances down, ostensibly to see how far down the blush goes, but then he can’t seem to stop his eyes from travelling lower and lower, across the lines of Eggsy’s abs and the cut of his hipbones, to the fine trail of hair below his navel and -

And the red lace stretched tight over his groin and arse, shockingly bright against the paleness of his skin.

“What -” _are you wearing?_ is what Harry starts to say, and then cuts himself off because dirty old man he may be, but he absolutely refuses to be a softcore porn cliche about it.

Eggsy makes an odd, strangled noise, and Harry flicks his gaze back up to see him looking mortified, scrambling for the towel lying in a crumpled heap at his feet.

“Fuck, shit, fuck,” he chants, wrapping the towel around his waist and knotting it tightly. “Harry, this ain’t - it’s not -”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence by finishing that sentence,” Harry finds himself saying flatly. Eggsy falls silent. “You’re right, I should have knocked,” he goes on, after a pause. “My apologies. I was looking for my glasses, you wouldn’t happen to have seen them, would you?”

Eggsy nods. “They’re in your office on the desk,” he says quietly, still clutching at the towel, white-knuckled.

Harry sighs to himself. He suddenly feels incredibly tired. “I’m making ravioli for dinner, will you be staying?”

Eggsy looks like he wants to say no, but the prospect of free food must be causing him some indecision because he hesitates. “Yeah, alright,” he says after a moment. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says. “Come down whenever you’re ready.”

He closes the door gently behind him and heads back down to the kitchen without stopping, whereupon he falls into a seat at the table and puts his head in his hands because _sweet mother of god_. 

He can’t get the image out of his head. Surrounded by the utilitarian mundanity of his kitchen, with the ingredients for dinner sitting on the counter, and all he can picture is Eggsy in his pretty knickers, so sheer and tight Harry could clearly see the shape of his cock in them. He’d wanted nothing so much as to drop to his knees and worship every inch of Eggsy’s glorious young body, and even Eggsy’s obvious embarrassment hadn’t done much to put him off, which probably makes Harry an absolutely heinous old pervert, but there you go. 

A sound on the stairs lets him know Eggsy’s on his way down, so Harry heaves himself up and starts busying himself with making dinner. 

Eggsy doesn’t say a word when he walks into the kitchen, but Harry knows he’s there regardless so he says, “Take a seat, Eggsy, it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

It’s not entirely true, of course; he hasn’t even started making the pasta for the ravioli, and Harry isn’t the world’s greatest chef, though he has yet to die of food-poisoning so he’s clearly not terrible. Eggsy just makes a vaguely assenting noise and, when Harry glances over at him, he’s taken a seat at the table. He looks nervous, which is why Harry asks him to open a bottle of red wine and doesn’t make a comment when Eggsy chugs down the first glass like it’s water.

He’s wearing a worn, grey hoodie and his hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s looking down at where his hands are curled around the stem of his glass. He looks soft and vulnerable, the back of his neck is still flushed red, and Harry wants to touch him so badly his hands itch. He grabs the salt and pepper and busies himself with seasoning instead.

“It ain’t anything weird,” Eggsy says eventually, after the silence has become almost unbearable.

Harry stirs the sauce bubbling in the pan on the hob and doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, I know how it looks, yeah?” Eggsy goes on, determined. “But it ain’t weird, okay?”

Harry rolls out little squares of pasta for the ravioli and still says absolutely nothing.

"I don't wear them on missions, and - and _never_ when Mum and me lived with Dean, Christ," Eggsy says, sounding appalled at the very idea. 

It is frankly astonishing that Harry doesn’t explode with the effort of not saying anything.

“It’s just -” Eggsy sighs and rests his chin on his hand. “I dunno … it just feels good, sometimes, I can’t explain it.”

It’s even more astonishing that Harry refrains from informing Eggsy in explicit detail exactly how good he could make him feel - with or without panties. 

Eggsy makes a frustrated sound and shoves back from the table. "Fuck's sake, Harry, say something would you?"

Harry sighs and puts down the spoon. "There really isn't anything for me to say," he says, turning the hob down before taking the seat adjacent to him. "You don't have to explain yourself -”

“Don’t give me that touchy-feely, PC bullshit,” Eggsy says, derisive. “Swear down, I’ll walk out.”

“It is _not_ bullshit,” Harry says shortly. Eggsy is so frustratingly combative sometimes, understandably so, of course, but it does make trying to have a sensitive conversation difficult. He decides being blunt is the only way forward. “Eggsy, I mean this in the best possible way, but - I don’t care.”

Eggsy’s expression twists; that was perhaps _too_ blunt, Harry thinks, realising his mistake as Eggsy rises from his seat with a face like thunder. 

“What I mean to say,” Harry says, snagging the sleeve of Eggsy's hoodie before he can strop off, "is thank you for telling me, but this really isn't any of my business. It's not hurting you and it's not hurting Kingsman, and that's all that matters to me.”

“For real?” Eggsy says, scepticism dripping from each syllable. Harry nods, and he blows out a breath and leans back in his seat, all the tension draining out of him. “Oh. Well … okay then.”

"Okay," Harry echoes, patting him on the arm encouragingly, and it's some time before he realises his hand has migrated entirely without his permission to cover Eggsy's. 

Their gazes catch and hold across the table. Eggsy swallows hard, and Harry watches his throat work in a kind of stunned arousal. Christ, there’s barely three feet separating them, it would be so easy to just reach over and -

“Harry, I -” Eggsy starts uncertainly, and that’s when the oven timer goes off like an air raid siren, making them both jump and look around wildly. 

Eggsy recovers first, laughing sheepishly and sliding his hand out from under Harry’s, tucking it into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Oh, yeah,” he says, pulling it back out with something clutched in his palm. “Here, meant to give you these when I came down.”

He hands Harry his glasses. Their fingers brush and it’s like every soppy romantic cliche ever imagined, held gazes and caught breaths and flushed cheeks included. Harry would vomit if he wasn’t too busy thinking about pulling Eggsy’s hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the back of it. And then bending him over the table and nailing him on it.

“You’re very kind, Eggsy, thank you,” Harry murmurs, when what he really wants to say is _I want to rip those panties off you with my teeth_.

Eggsy shrugs, cheeks still pink. “No bother.”

Harry goes back to making dinner, while Eggsy sips more wine and tells him about the mission in Budapest. 

“I was right about one thing, though,” Harry says a little while later, half to himself.

“What?”

“You _are_ full of surprises,” he replies, and laughs when Eggsy throws the tea-towel at him.

“Shut up, Harry,” he says, but he’s smiling so Harry considers his work done.

***

Weeks later and Harry’s in Milan, having just met with his Italian counterpart for a courtesy call as the new Arthur. He finds himself with an unprecedented two hours of downtime while the jet goes through the necessary prep and refueling before it can take off again.

He’s always liked Milan; any place that cares about the right way to make a suit as much as he does is the place for him. (He’s become something of a sartorial snob after all his years as a Kingsman).

Sadly, two hours isn’t really long enough to do much more than grab a coffee from the cafe in the airport, and then wander around the duty-free section and pick up gifts. For his mother, he buys an Armani silk scarf and a gold-plated fountain pen; he rarely sees her since she lives in Monte Carlo and thinks he’s a consultant for a private hospital in London, but he likes to get her little presents here and there, mostly to ease his conscience when it reminds him that it’s been somewhere in the region of ten years since they last spoke face-to-face. For Merlin it’s a bottle of twelve-year old Glenlivet and a Cold War thriller novel that will probably make him rant for three hours about historical inaccuracies and then call Harry a bastard, which is exactly why Harry bought it for him. Percival gets a novelty pen in the shape of a car, _partly_ because of that time he crashed a beautiful and quite possibly irreplaceable Bentley trying to chase down a suspected member of the Russian mob, but _mostly_ because they’ve been in competition since 1998 to see who can get the other the most godawful gift imaginable, and who can be the most insincerely grateful when presented with said gifts without breaking their blandly polite facade. Lancelot gets a large, silver Patek watch because he’s become quite fond of her over the months, especially the way she tends to deal with the recruits for Tristan’s replacement, who seem to think she’s there out of misplaced pandering to some politically correct equality agenda, and are ultimately very surprised when she wipes the floor with them in every single test.

Eggsy, though … Eggsy’s a little bit harder to buy for, not least because Harry has no idea what one would get for the person you want to tie to your bed and have your way with on a daily basis. It’s not exactly a Hallmark moment, especially since Eggsy doesn’t actually _know_ about all of the depraved things Harry wants to do to him.

Yes, Harry’s aware this probably makes him a sexual predator.

In the end, he settles on a watch similar to the one he’s getting for Lancelot, and is halfway through paying for his spoils when something - a small child yelling at her harried mother, or perhaps the tall Italian man having a rather public argument with someone on his phone - makes him look up, and that’s when he sees them.

Just across from the small gift shop he’s currently standing in, there’s a shop selling lots of fashionable and - this being Milan - horrendously expensive clothing. In the display window, there’s half a dozen blank-faced and oddly long-limbed mannequins modelling everything from barbour jackets and skinny jeans, to evening dresses and impossibly high heels. And front and centre, a willowy feminine figure stands in what would be a very uncomfortable position for a real woman, wearing nothing but a matching bra and panty set in deep, plum-coloured silk.

There’s white lace stitched along the hem of the panties, which Harry knows because he has a brief out-of-body experience imagining them low on Eggsy’s hips, dark purple against pale skin, cock tucked delicately away - or, no, hard and flushed red, precome leaving an even darker spot on the silk, where Harry can put his mouth and taste him.

 _Fuck_. This is really not the time or the place, a fact impressed upon him when the woman ringing up his purchases raises her voice to get him to actually pay for them. He gives her a disarming smile, apologises and hands over his card, then hurries out of the shop once he’s done.

He stops halfway across the airport, trying not to make it obvious what he’s doing, and five minutes later he’s walking out of the clothing store with a discreet black bag that he quickly stuffs inside the plastic one containing all of the other gifts. He has to try very hard not to lurk in the departure lounge like he’s done something shameful. His shoulders keep hunching themselves over the bag in his lap; Christ, he hasn’t been this self-conscious in about twenty years. It feels like he's got a bright red sign above his head saying SEXUAL DEVIANT for the entire world to see.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have long to dwell on it; twenty minutes later, Merlin informs him via his glasses feed that the jet is ready to go. It's not until he's on the plane that the doubt starts to creep in, as he's stashing the bag in the overhead compartment. 

What the fuck is he _thinking_ , buying sexy underwear for a boy literally half his age? Quite apart from being wildly inappropriate - he is Eggsy’s boss, after all, and that is only the start of their problems - it also has more than a touch of lecherous old pervert about it. Harry’s never gone in much for self-loathing; he’s done so many objectively terrible things, both as a Kingsman agent and otherwise, that it seems pointless, narcissistic even, to waste time feeling guilty or regretful. Those are luxuries he can’t afford and doesn’t deserve in any case, but this time - well. This might be the first time that he thinks maybe he should start feeling them. 

Or maybe he’s just overreacting. It’s hard to tell.

It’s fine, he thinks to himself. _Everything’s fine_. He may have bought the things on an ill-advised whim but that doesn’t mean he has to do anything with them. He’ll just throw them out, or put them somewhere he never has to see them again, and no one will be any the wiser, least of all Eggsy.

***

And everything _is_ fine - until it’s not.

Harry’s a fastidious person by nature, but he’s been living alone for a good long while now so naturally he’s got into some bad habits along the way. Like, say, leaving things in the spare room. The same spare room that Eggsy has unofficially claimed as his home-away-from-home. The very same spare room that Eggsy is currently using to change out of his suit and into a sweatpants and hoodie combo that Harry will loudly complain about but secretly covet for it’s soft-and-cosy-ness. 

When he realises that he’s left the gifts from Milan strewn across the bed in the spare room, panties half out of their bag where Harry had flung them, hoping never to look at them again, he goes cold all over and freezes where he’s standing for a good ten seconds. 

“Shit buggering fuck,” he mutters, and briefly considers emigrating to Australia. Then he remembers how much he hates hot weather and discards the idea. 

He’s torn between running upstairs, bursting into the room and throwing out some diversionary tactics before Eggsy sees them, or doing something he hasn’t done in many, many years and _praying to God_ that Eggsy doesn’t see them. He might be a thirty-year-lapsed Catholic but he’s fairly certain he remembers the Lord’s Prayer. Probably.

In the end, he doesn’t need to do either of those things, because ten minutes later, Eggsy thunders down the stairs and storms into the room.

“What the fuck is this?” he demands, throwing something soft onto Harry’s desk. Harry doesn’t need to look to know what it is, but he does anyway, and feels his stomach sink at the soft, silk gleam of the panties draped over his laptop.

Harry finds himself lost for words, which he can’t remember the last time that happened to him, so he just blinks up at Eggsy and says, “What?”

It is a _woefully_ inadequate response, and Eggsy’s face tells him exactly what he thinks of it. 

“Harry, I swear to god,” he says furiously, “if this is your idea of a fuckin’ joke -”

“It’s not a joke,” Harry says quickly. He may not have a bloody clue _what_ this is, but he knows that much. “Eggsy, I promise you, I would never -”

“Then what the hell is it?” Eggsy demands.

Harry stares up at him wordlessly. How can he explain it? How can he look Eggsy in the face and tell him that the harmless, personal predilection he’d shared with Harry not so long ago has got Harry panting after him like a dog in heat? He can already picture the look of mingled shock and disgust on Eggsy’s face when he realises the truth, and it makes the shame bubble in his gut. 

He’s a tired, broken old man, and Eggsy - Eggsy is whole and healthy and he deserves better.

So Harry takes a deep breath and says, formally, “I’m sorry, I meant nothing by it. You have my word it won’t happen again.”

Eggsy opens his mouth to speak, but something must stop him because he takes one look at Harry’s face, and then closes it. 

“Alright,” he says softly, and it’s such a contrast to his earlier tone that Harry is left feeling somewhat wrong-footed. “Goodnight, Harry.”

And he shuts the door quietly behind him.

***

In retrospect, trying to drink his feelings away was probably a bad idea.

 _I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen_ , says the silver paperweight shaped like a bulldog on his desk. It sounds like Merlin, which is odd because it was actually a gift from Percival, the prick. _You never bloody listen_.

“Shut up,” Harry tells it, and downs the last of his third martini. 

Then he goes back to looking at expensive lingerie online and adding the prettiest ones to his shopping cart.

Right now, the screen of his laptop is showing the back of a blonde girl glancing coquettishly over her shoulder, wearing nothing but a pair of peach-coloured lace panties. She’s very attractive, with miles of soft, tanned skin and a flirty grin, but all Harry can think of is Eggsy and the hard planes of his stomach, the sweetness to his mouth when he smiles, the way the lace would hug the globes of his arse.

“God, he’d look _edible_ in these,” Harry tells the paperweight, which doesn’t say anything, of course, but somehow manages to give him a thoroughly judgemental look. “Oh, you’re a fucking dog, what would you know?”

He's not sure how he ended up mournfully clicking through page after page of women in their underwear, though he suspects the three martinis and four fingers of scotch have something to do with it. In any case, here he is, and here are the ten, count them, _ten_ pairs of panties in his cart, and he has just enough sobriety left to remember not to charge these to his Kingsman credit card he gets for expenses. Apart from having enough money of his own that a few sets of lingerie, even expensive ones, isn’t going to set him back, he cannot bear the thought of Merlin going through the finances and finding this on his monthly statement.

He is vaguely ashamed of himself, but not enough to make him stop.

***

Harry’s hangover the next morning is enough to make him forget about the previous night’s purchases, at least until he gets to the Kingsman estate and finds Eggsy and Lancelot on an early morning run around the grounds.

He watches them from the window of his office, gulping down too-hot coffee because he needs the caffeine to feel even remotely human but he can’t wait the ten minutes it would take for it to cool down. It’s not until they jog past a second time that Harry remembers - and then he has to put his mug down and press his face to his desk in mortification.

Which is how Merlin finds him fifteen minutes later when he walks in to announce a new lead on one of their investigations.

“Dare I ask what’s wrong?” he says, face impassive except for one raised eyebrow. “Or do I not want to know?”

“You don’t want to know,” Harry says, voice muffled where he’s still speaking into the desk. “Trust me.”

“Right,” Merlin says after a pause. “Well, then, would you like me to call Lancelot and Galahad in for this one? It should be a simple intel gathering mission, but you know how those two like to … escalate things.”

Harry snorts. That’s putting it mildly. “Yes, send them both. If things ‘escalate’, as you put it, at least we’ll have it all on camera. I could do with a laugh.”

“Still not going to ask,” Merlin tells him cheerfully. “I’ll go and grab them now, then. Briefing’s at eleven.”

“I’ll do it. I’m heading out for a run shortly, I’ll catch them on the way in.”

Merlin nods. “Right you are, Arthur,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Harry lifts his head off the desk and finishes the rest of his coffee. Then he busies himself with paperwork for a little while, making sure he’s dotted all the i's and crossed all the t’s, as it were. Then he heads down to the gym and attached showers, where he comes across Eggsy and Roxy, back from their run, in varying states of undress.

Roxy notices him first. “Hello, Arthur,” she says, smiling as she slips on her waistcoat.

“Lancelot,” Harry says, nodding at her. It takes all of his willpower not to avoid Eggsy’s gaze. “Galahad.”

Eggsy apparently has no such qualms about avoiding Harry’s gaze, because he looks anywhere but at him. “Alright,” he says, noticeably subdued.

Harry can feel Roxy looking at them, frowning slightly. He supposes this is an unusually frosty reception between himself and Eggsy, considering that just yesterday morning Eggsy had greeted him with a smile and a, “Morning, guv,” to which Harry had responded, “You really shouldn’t call me that, you know it’ll only make Merlin jealous,” and then they’d shared a grin when Merlin’s outraged voice echoed over the intercom.

He does his best to ignore the small, tense silence that has opened up and says, “Don’t make any plans for the weekend, there’s a mission waiting for you in the main boardroom at eleven.”

“Anywhere nice?” Roxy asks hopefully, and Harry smiles.

“I wouldn’t dream of depriving Merlin of the chance to tell you himself,” he says. 

Eggsy snorts. “That means it’s shit, then,” he says, yanking on a pair of socks. He looks up suddenly. “Christ, you’re not sending us to Wales again, are you?”

Roxy groans and drops back down onto the bench. “Not Wales,” she says miserably. “Anything but Wales, Arthur, please. I lost my favourite wellies in that clusterfuck.”

“Oi, I’m the one that nearly got fuckin’ shot that time,” Eggsy says, tutting at her. “And you’re worried about a pair of shitty wellies?”

“What are you complaining about, you didn’t actually _get_ shot in the end, did you? No, because _I_ was the one up to my arse in mud, taking them out by sniper.”

Eggsy tuts again, and then they descend into familiar, good-natured bickering.

 _It’s like I’m not even here_ , Harry marvels, leaning against a bank of lockers and watching them duke it out - Eggsy with his shirt untucked and half-buttoned, Roxy barefoot with her cuffs undone.

It’s so rare that he gets to see his agents like this, loose and relaxed in their precious little downtime, all of their idiosyncrasies and habits laid bare. The only person he gets to see unguarded these days is Merlin, and that’s only because while Merlin might respect _Arthur_ , he thinks _Harry’s_ “an unbearable shite who needs a swift kick up the arse” - and that is a direct quote, which is just charming. 

Anyway, the point is, anytime this sort of thing happens, Harry is wont to take a step back and just observe it, like he’s David Attenborough watching something cute and fluffy being mauled to death by something much bigger and uglier. 

But in a nice way, obviously.

Which is why he’s still there ten minutes later, after they’ve bantered themselves into silence, and they’re blinking up at him like they’d genuinely forgotten he was there.

“Was there anything else, Arthur?” Roxy asks politely, and Harry can practically see her reining herself in and morphing back into the perfect Kingsman again. 

He sighs. “Not at all, Lancelot,” he says. “I’ll see you both in an hour.”

He turns to leave, but not quick enough to miss the pointed look Roxy throws Eggsy, and then the rolled up socks she tosses at his head. Harry decides he absolutely does not want to know and leaves the room as a fresh argument erupts between them.

An hour later finds them gathered in the boardroom, where Eggsy and Roxy are being briefed on their mission by Merlin, while Harry sits at the head of the table, taking the opportunity to catch up on some godforsaken paperwork and drifting in and out of the conversation at random. He doesn’t technically need to be here, could in fact do this remotely from his office via glasses feed, but he’s still only seven months into his leadership of Kingsman and there’s a hell of a lot more work goes into that than just sitting around and looking appropriately superior. 

Actually, while that is a genuine and valid reason, the real truth of the matter is that Harry misses going on missions so much that it feels like a constant, low-grade ache at the back of his mind, and he’s determined to live vicariously through his agents for as long as they’ll let him get away with it. 

“- once you get there, you’ll be speaking to our woman on the ground, as it were,” Merlin is saying, the next time Harry tunes into the conversation. “And she’ll give you access to all the firepower you might need for this assignment -”

“Hang on,” Eggsy interrupts, looking up from the dossier in front of him. Merlin pauses mid-sentence and looks at him sternly over his glasses. Undeterred, Eggsy says, “You ain’t told us where we’re going yet. I mean, if it’s the ends of the fuckin’ Earth, I for one would really like to know, you get me?”

Roxy is nodding in agreement next to him, and Harry has to work very hard to hide his growing smile, especially when Merlin glances over at him and scowls as if to say _this is your fault, you brought him home with you and now he won’t leave_. Harry just gives a minute shrug and goes back to his paperwork.

“Well, Galahad, you’ll be glad to know you’re not off to the _ends of the Earth_ , as you put it,” Merlin finally says, a little grumpily and a lot sarcastically. “You’re not even going out of Europe, actually. You and Lancelot are heading to Barcelona.”

Roxy and Eggsy - however prone they are to bickering like children in private - share a look of restrained glee before schooling their faces into identical masks of seriousness as the briefing continues.

***

Later that day, Harry’s in his office again when there’s a soft knock on his door,

“Hi,” Eggsy says awkwardly, poking his head into the room.

“Shouldn’t you be on a plane to Barcelona right now?” Harry says, frowning. 

“Yeah, I’m on my way to the hangar now, but um - I wanted a word?”

“Oh,” Harry says, caught by surprise. Then he gestures at the chair on the other side of his desk. “Of course, Eggsy, come in.”

Eggsy enters the room. He’s already dressed in his suit, glasses on and tie knotted in a near-perfect Windsor. Harry spares a moment to admire the tailoring of his shirt and trousers; he knew the boy would fill out a bespoke suit beautifully. 

“Listen, about last night,” Eggsy says as he sits down. “It’s a bit of a mess, yeah?”

“I think that was more my doing than yours,” Harry says, as lightly as possible when all he wants is to sink into the lushly carpeted floor. “For which I can only apolo -”

“Harry, would you shut up for a minute and let me speak?” Eggsy interrupts, sounding exasperated, but he smiles slightly when Harry raises his hands in surrender. “Look, I just want to know one thing -”

There’s a crackle of static and then Merlin’s voice echoes over the intercom. “Eggsy, where the hell are you? If you’re fannying around with the lighter grenades again, I’ll shove one up your arse faster than you can blink. Get to the hanger now!”

Eggsy sends a wry glance Harry’s way as he reaches up to his earpiece. “Yeah, yeah, keep your hair on, guv,” he says, and grins when Merlin loudly tells him to get fucked. “Got a way with words, don’t he?” 

“Please,” Harry says dismissively. “That was practically flirting for Merlin.” He laughs at the stricken look on Eggsy’s face.

“Jesus, that’s a thought I never wanted to have,” Eggsy says, wrinkling his nose. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it, thanks a lot, Harry.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says blandly. “Now, get out and get on that plane.”

“Yes, sir,” Eggsy says, with an extremely sarcastic salute. He gets to his feet and is almost at the door when he pauses and turns back. “We’re not done with this conversation, by the way,” he says.

Harry suppresses a sigh. “I didn’t think for a moment that we were,” he says, and the minute Eggsy’s gone, he lets his head drop onto the desk.

He is absolutely _fucked_.

***

"I'm absolutely fucked," Harry announces without preamble, as he walks into Merlin's office.

"Oh, this should be good," Merlin mutters, rolling his eyes and turning in his chair to face Harry. "Please, come right in. It's not as if I'm busy single-handedly overseeing the safety of the free world or anything."

"You're watching videos of cats on Youtube," Harry points out. "For the third time this week, I might add."

"... Alright, what do you want?" 

Harry hesitates. Now that he’s here, telling Merlin about this whole thing seems like the world’s stupidest idea. On the other hand, if he doesn’t tell someone soon and get some outside perspective, it’s quite likely he’ll go mad. Besides, he and Merlin have been friends for long enough that Harry knows he can be honest with him, and Merlin can be brutally, painstakingly, _callously_ honest with him, which is the kind of honesty Merlin prefers and may actually be the only kind he knows about.

“Well?” Merlin says, turning back to his computer screen once it becomes apparent that Harry isn’t going to start talking anytime soon. “Do I have to guess? You realise I don’t actually care?”

“And I don’t care that you don’t care,” Harry returns blithely. “I’m going to tell you regardless.”

Merlin makes a _go on_ gesture without looking away from the screen. “I assumed you would.”

“I think,” Harry says, dry-mouthed and inexplicably nervous. “I think I have feelings for Eggsy.” 

(It sounds so bloody inadequate, but it’s not like there’s a word or phrase that somehow communicates _I want to do so many gloriously filthy things to him_ and _but I also want to make him tea and spoil him rotten_ , with overtures of _sometimes I wish I’d never met Lee because Eggsy deserves to have grown up with a father who cares about him._

Yes, alright, there is _one_ word that covers all of that, but one thing at a time, here).

Merlin is almost insultingly unsurprised.

“Oh, is that all?” he says, turning his head slightly to give Harry a disappointed look. “I thought it might be something important.”

Harry stares at him open-mouthed. “What do you mean _is that all_? That’s a pretty big all!”

“Not for you,” Merlin shrugs, and then thoughtfully, “I suppose it had to happen at some point.”

" _What_ had to happen?"

"Your mid-life crisis," he replies, like it's obvious. 

Harry's tempted to throw something at him. "The jokes about my age are really starting to wear thin, you know," he says testily.

Merlin grins. "Not for me."

"You are an unmitigated arsehole, did you know that?"

"Stop saying such lovely things, Harry, people will talk."

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. He really needs to find some better friends, the ones he has are _terrible_. 

"Yes," he says, with as much withering sarcasm as he can pack into one word. "They'll talk about how I bludgeoned you to death with your own clipboard."

Merlin gives him an affronted look. "Leave my clipboard out of this," he says, reaching for it and clutching it to his chest. “Look, if you’re expecting me to be surprised, you’ll be sorely disappointed. You’ve been mooning after the lad since you met him -”

“Oh, hardly -” Harry starts to protest.

“- _since you met him_ ,” Merlin says, talking over him loudly. “And quite frankly, you’d be doing everyone a favour if you just grew a pair and admitted your undying love for him.”

“I don’t -” Harry says, and then realises that any way he finishes that sentence is probably going to be a damn lie, so he shuts his mouth.

Merlin snorts. “Nice try, Harry,” he says. “But you’re about as subtle as a brick when you’re infatuated with someone.”

“Excuse you, I am the very epitome of subtlety.”

Merlin actually bursts out laughing, the bastard. “You really aren’t,” he says. “But please, continue to delude yourself if it makes you feel better.”

“Shut up,” Harry says without heat, while Merlin wipes his eyes, still chuckling. “The point I’m trying to make is - what am I supposed to do about it? I can hardly go up to him and tell him that I -”

"That you want to - how did Lancelot put it? Oh, yes - ride him hard and put him away wet?"

Harry just barely refrains from putting his head in his hands. “That girl is a terrible influence on you, Merlin,” he says.

“Says the man who’s trying to shag a kid half his age,” Merlin counters mercilessly.

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” Harry retorts, finally giving in to the urge to throw up his hands, before turning on his heel and stalking out.

Merlin's smirk follows him out of the room.

***

Twenty minutes later, so does Merlin.

“You’re being remarkably dense about this whole thing, you know,” he says, as though they hadn’t left off. “Even for you, this is absurd.”

“I will sack you,” Harry warns, glaring at him across the desk.

“Oh, _please_ do,” Merlin answers dryly. “It’ll be the highlight of my fucking year watching you try to run this place without me. You wouldn’t last twelve hours.”

That’s probably true but Harry’s damned if he’ll admit it.

“You know, I’m really not interested in talking about this any longer,” he says instead, looking down at his desk and shuffling papers around unnecessarily. “So if you have anything else to say, then -”

“Harry,” Merlin says, so kindly that Harry is immediately suspicious. “Just this once, get your head out of your arse, aye?”

And with that, he’s gone.

Cheeky bastard loves getting in the last word.


End file.
